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THE TWA WEAVERS.
When war and taxation had fleec’d us right sair,
And made us like scaur-crows, a’ ragged and bare,
Two poor weaver bodies ae day chanc’d to meet,
Wi' scarcely a shoe on their stockingless feet;
Their skin through their auld tatter’d cleeding did shine,
And their beards might hae pass’d for a Bishop’s langsyne.
"Weel Robin" quo’ Thomas "what way do ye fen
And do ye aye live yet, out by at Woodend?
"Live!—faith I live naewhere, I starve at Tolcross,
Gude troth, I'm owre like you, and that is our loss;
For ilka thing now, does against us combine,
Which gar’s look back, wi’ regret on langsyne.
